


Firelight

by gentledusk



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 18:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentledusk/pseuds/gentledusk
Summary: Even here, the flames haunt him.





	Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: talk of burning alive and also death because the Belhalla BBQ was a fun time for everyone ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> Takes place in some weird alternate universe where Beowolf is actually in Heroes. The choice of Jamke is somewhat out of left field, but I like to believe the people who experienced the whole Belhalla mess could come to some sort of "shared trauma" silent understanding in Askr.

Tongues of flame cast flickering shadows onto grey stone as Beowolf strides down the castle halls, the faint scuff of his boots and the rustling of his clothes the only sounds echoing in the silence around him. Even here, he cannot escape it–cannot escape the fear that fills his chest, cannot escape the smell of burning flesh and the taste of ash choking his lungs.

Still the torch flames dance, teasing in their innocuousness, taunting him with their constant presence, with the faint scent of smoke wafting through the air. His stride lengthens, quick steps carrying him past these will-o’-the-wisps, these pale spectres haunting him even beyond the grave. The small flames should offer no threat to him–they are only there to light the way, nothing more. Even if they were larger, fiercer,  _drowning_  him in their heat–he cannot die here. He will not be burned up like mere refuse, will not be tossed aside like another pawn in a political storm.

As long as he continues to be useful, he will have a place here. It’s not an unfamiliar type of arrangement–he’s a mercenary, after all. Being useful for pay is kind of what he does. It’s not something that weighs too heavily on him–this world is pleasant enough, for all that there’s a war going on here as well. Maybe it’s a terrible way to think, but without a war, there’d be no need to summon him, and he’d be merrily roasting away right now instead of fleeing the dark confines of his room like a thief into the night.

The cool night air is a blessing on his clammy skin, as is the escape from the flickering firelight dogging his every step. If he looks out into the woods here, turns his back to the castle with its countless torches and cooking fires and hearth flames–he can pretend. He can pretend that he doesn’t flinch at every casting of a fire spell, that he doesn’t quake in his boots at the mere  _sight_  of a red tome. He doesn’t even sleep with a blanket anymore–it’s too  _warm_ , too suffocating, and if he had his way he wouldn’t even bother with long sleeves or armour at all, but he’s not particularly keen to scare off all his comrades with the sight of him or to get stabbed in an inconvenient place just because he couldn’t deal with a little  _discomfort._ He can deal with the feeling of his armour closing in on him, scalding,  _melting–_

“Real piece of work, ain’t I?” he mutters, staring up into the sky. He almost wishes he had something to smoke, but. That too is something he’s avoided, ever since coming here. That too is something that’s been blackened by fire’s hungry, all-consuming grasp.

He hasn’t told anyone about this…whatever this is. The fear, the nightmares, the occasional burning ache in his chest. He’s not so proud as to refuse help when it’s needed, but…this isn’t something that can be fixed with a healer’s staff. Nothing in the world, save for maybe wiping his memories, can erase how he tenses at the smell of smoke and shies away from even the tiniest candle flame. He’s impossibly, selfishly glad his children aren’t fire mages, and that even Lachesis, for all her bluntness, never seems to use fire magic around him anymore. Maybe he should feel ashamed of his weakness, but instead…he’s just glad that he doesn’t have to say it aloud. That he doesn’t have to deal with the desire to be near them warring with the deep-seated fear in his heart.

A deliberate crunch of twigs catches his attention, and he whirls around, sword already in hand, but–it’s just Jamke. This isn’t the first time they’ve encountered each other out here, and it’s definitely not going to be the last. For a royal, he’s pretty at home in the outdoors, and his company isn’t obnoxious. He knows how to keep quiet, for one thing, and he never pries. Beowolf, for his part, returns the favour, never asking what Jamke is doing out in the woods or down by the river, never wondering aloud if the same nightmares that plague him are the ones that drive Jamke out of the castle with that haggard look in his eyes.

Together they sit in the darkness, breathing,  _living_ , staring into the night with not a word between them.


End file.
